Ode to Gen X

The poem unwritten, words rarely expressed  
not ever the host, never asked to be guest  
 
in your childhood, left feral, uncared for, discarded  
tending to self, armed in latch-keys; unguarded  
 
Apologetic, serene, your work-ethic on par  
you cover your bruises, aware of your scars  
 
where your face is forgotten you lead with your eyes  
an adult at eight, and at fifty you rise  
 
to the rather oblivious; your plans laid backstage  
preparing for battle, persevering with age  
 
you survive in your values; placid, hard-bitten.
Ode to you, X: let not your poem be unwritten.